To Kill the Pope (36 page)

*  *  *

In the morning, the abbé joined Tim at breakfast in the cafeteria.

“I trust you slept well,” he said engagingly, “and that your morning prayers—I think I can guess what they were—will be answered. You have a most interesting day ahead of you.”

“Yes, Father, I know,” Tim responded with equal joviality. “I'm really looking forward to my meeting with the archbishop.”

“Indeed, you will find it fascinating,” the abbé went on. “And you won't have to go very far from here. The archbishop's residence is the Cisterian abbey of Villelongue in a little valley just below the old Saissac castle on the slope of the
Montagne Noire,
the Black Mountain. It faces Fanjeaux, the little hilltop town you must have passed on your way here to Mirepoix. It's less than an hour away . . . At the entrance to Fanjeaux, on a little square just off the highway, there is a café, and somebody from the abbey will meet you there to show you the way to the archbishop's residence.”

The abbé embraced Tim in warm farewell, and watched him get into his green rental Peugeot in the parking lot and drive away toward the exit from the seminary campus and the highway. Once Tim had turned right toward Mirepoix, a black Citroën pulled out of the lot and proceeded at a considerable distance in the same direction. It was driven by a young man wearing a dark suit, and his companion was similiarly attired. Their car had a tall antenna for the two-way radio.

*  *  *

In the courtyard at “Les Homs,” Jean-Pierre led Jake Kurtski to a black Citroën with a radio antenna. The Fraternity received a discount on Citroëns.

“Get in,” the Frenchman said. “I'll drive you to work.”

“And here's your piece,” he added, handing Kurtski a heavy 9mm caliber automatic pistol with a silencer, “and two extra clips, just in case.”

Kurtski stuck the weapon in the waistband of his trousers, his checkered sports jacket helping to conceal it. He had a splitting headache from the previous evening's vodka, but his hand never trembled when he held a weapon, even with the worst hangover.

Traveling the short distance from “Les Horns” to Fanjeaux in Jean-Pierre's car, Kurtski closed his eyes and let his mind wander over the past and present in eager anticipation of the encounter with Tim Savage. How weird and extraordinary, he mused, that the final chapter in the Vietnam Phoenix battles would be played out—to the death—between two CIA counterinsurgency veterans in the serene beauty of the foothills of the Pyrénées, literally a world away from their last clash in the Mekong Delta.

Much as he detested today's role of gunman, Kurtski was pleased that Tim Savage was the designated target: it was some kind of justice, though he never thought in poetic or divine terms. In fact, it was settling old scores after Savage's cowardly insubordination in that village. He had always regarded Savage as chicken, pussy, a wuss who probably was a queer for good measure. That must have been why Savage had become a priest—to have some of that tasty fucking of young boys. Yeah, if Kurtski was to kill anybody, it might as well be Savage—with pleasure.

*  *  *

The late September sun was already high in the Languedoc sky when Tim reached Fanjeaux atop its steep hill. It had stood there forever, at least since Roman days when it served as a center of trade and communications in the region. The Romans had erected there a temple dedicated to Jupiter, calling it Fanum Jovis, after their chief deity; in time, Fanum Jovis became Fanjeaux. Later, it turned into a great Cathar center and St. Dominic's favorite site to preach against Catharism early in the thirteenth century. From its height of 1,100 feet, Fanjeaux, the ancient fortress town, dominated the countryside as far as the eye could see.

Tim left the highway before it began its descent toward the central Languedoc plain, pulling up at the café on the square at the entrance to the town. He walked inside, looking around for whomever was supposed to meet him there, but the place was empty, except for the owner in a baseball cap busy behind the zinc counter. Tim went tense as he had in the Mekong Delta when
action was about to start. But something was wrong. Just then, the black Citroën from the seminary halted at the edge of the highway, below the square.

“Okay,” the driver said into the radio handset, “he's arrived at the café. Now he is entering it . . .”

“Good,” came the answer. “Stay there for now and keep your eyes open. Report immediately anything you see that is out of the ordinary.”

“Roger,” said the driver, who was addicted to American police television shows and movies. “And here are the other guys . . .”

An identical black Citroën had driven up the incline of the highway from the plain in the northeast, turned right, gained the square, and came up to a stop in front of the café, next to Tim's green rental car. The timing was perfectly synchronized, down to the second.

“All right,” Jean-Pierre told Kurtski. “This is the place. That's where he is. Now go and do it . . .”

Kurtski grunted, producing the pistol, lengthened by the silencer, from his waistband, and pushed open the door of the café. Tim's back was turned to him, and Kurtski raised the gun in his right hand for a bull's-eye single shot in the head. But Tim, all his senses sharpened, heard the door and the soft steps, wheeled around, and crouched. The bullet whistled harmlessly over his left shoulder, and Tim hurled himself at Kurtski, knocking him down. The pistol fell out of Kurtski's hand onto the floor.

Tim looked down at the prostrate man. It took him a moment of utter disbelief to recognize Kurtski. What on earth was Kurtski doing there in the Languedoc town trying to kill him? Why was he interfering with Tim's mission? On whose behalf was he acting? Kurtski, to be sure, had hated his guts in Vietnam, but it could not have anything to do with this attack in France so many years later, could it? All these questions rushed through Tim's mind as he recalled that Paul Martinius, his CIA friend in Rome, had mentioned in passing that Jake Kurtski was in town for some unknown reason. They did not pursue the subject, and Tim had dismissed it. But now he had to fight for his life with him, and Kurtski's motives mattered not. What mattered was Tim's survival.

Kurtski was fifteen years or so older than Tim, out of shape, and
this made the difference. With Kurtski attempting to get up while simultaneously reaching for the pistol, Tim kicked him full in the face. Kurtski was too slow and uncoordinated to escape the vicious karate kick. Now his face was oozing blood, his front false teeth smashed and filling his mouth; he was suffocating on the shards of the dentures, trying to spit them out, and emitting horrible guttural sounds. But he got up to his feet, dragging himself to the door. It was Tim who picked up the pistol, aiming at Kurtski, his finger almost squeezing the trigger.

“Sonofabitch,” he said aloud, “I cannot shoot this bastard when I look into his eyes . . . But get the fuck out of here before I change my mind and kill you . . .”

Tim heard the owner frantically telephoning the
gendarmerie
from his office behind the zinc bar as he watched Kurtski stumble outside. No, he could not kill the disarmed and suddenly defenseless Kurtski, even if he were not a priest. That was what Vietnam had been all about for Tim, his refusal to murder defenseless people. No, he could not do it even though Kurtski had set out to assassinate him. But Tim also comprehended in seconds that Kurtski had acted as a gunman—an executioner?—on behalf of the archbishop's Fraternity. There was no other explanation, but he had to analyze this later. The incident at the café was not yet quite finished.

Standing by the driver's side door of the black Citroën, Jean-Pierre was in a state of tense anticipation—he had heard the pistol shot as well as the thud of the collapsing body and the gunman's horrifying grunts. Then he saw Kurtski, blood covering his face like red paint, tumbling out of the café, gasping for air, and crying, “I need another gun . . . Get me a gun . . . I lost my gun . . .”

Shocked, Jean-Pierre quickly regained his composure—he was a veteran secret service operative despite his young age—and pulled a powerful Luger automatic from the holster under his black suit jacket. He threw it at Kurtski, yelling, “You're on your own now and keep your mouth shut if you want to live!” Jumping behind the steering wheel of the Citroën, Jean-Pierre yanked the car into reverse and backed out of the square, tires squealing wildly. He turned left and hit the highway downhill toward Carcassonne; “Les Horns” was on the way, but Jean-Pierre had no intention of stopping there. He radioed the driver of the other
Citroën, shouting, “Out, out! Go to Carcassonne, the usual place there, but don't attract attention to yourself!” Then he radioed the bishop at “Les Horns” that “we've got a crisis: it's all getting out of hand!”

Tim Savage walked out of the café at that precise moment, clutching the pistol in his hand. Kurtski, ghostlike and unsteady on his feet, stood in front of him, waving crazily the Luger the security chief had tossed to him.

“Okay, so let's see who is the real man here, you
focking
faggot priest,” Kurtski screamed through his smashed dentures, slurring the words sickeningly.

Both men were trapped. After Jean-Pierre had abandoned him to his fate, Kurtski had no way to escape without a car. Tim's green Peugeot sat in front of the café, but he knew that, should he try to leap into it, he would be unable to keep Kurtski in check with his gun. Kurtski could then bring him down with a single shot: they were so near each other.

Combat could not be avoided if Tim hoped to survive—otherwise he would be executed by Kurtski then and there. He also realized that they could not simply continue standing in front of the café, guns pointed; the police were certain to reach Fanjeaux any moment now. He began to move slowly along the inner edge of the square, his pistol aimed, placing himself on Kurtski's left side and backing in the direction of the town's portal. This gave him the advantage of open space behind him, leaving Kurtski caught between the Jesuit and the door of the café, effectively hemmed in. It had occurred to him—and obviously to Kurtski—that neither of them would fire first so long as they faced each other because neither could guess the result. If a shot missed, the instantaneous return from the adversary would almost certainly hit the first shooter. Besides, if they both were captured by the
gendarmes
on the square, neither of them could explain credibly or even plausibly their armed presence there. For Tim—and the Church in Rome—it could have devastating consequences.

Tim's idea therefore was to lead Kurtski, who began to follow him, into the narrow streets and byways of Fanjeaux where, with his greater agility, he could, sooner or later, corner him. And Kurtski would have no choice but to be drawn into the town
unless he chose to break away and flee. Tim assumed, however, that the man was like a wounded animal, determined to fight until the end. He was grateful for the CIA's instruction in urban guerrilla warfare.

Tim moved slowly backward through the deserted little streets, pointing a pistol at Kurtski, who was advancing just as slowly, dripping blood on the cobblestones, fifty feet separating them. Tim was lucky that in the sparsely inhabited Fanjeaux, no more than a thousand people, the streets were almost always empty, except for an occasional car or passerby. He had the town to himself as he attempted to reel in Kurtski.

Continuing to walk backward, with an occasional quick look over his shoulder, Tim moved deeper and deeper into the town, past old churches and private houses dating back to the early centuries of the millennium, until he suddenly found himself in front of what had been the home of St. Dominic in his anti-Cathar preaching days. A plaque on the wall identified the house as Dominic's abode, and Tim noticed it out of the corner of his left eye. Would the spirit of St. Dominic save Tim from the new heretics?

Past Dominic's house, Tim, still aiming his pistol at Kurtski—advancing at the same rate of speed—disappearing and reappearing around Fanjeaux street corners, veered backward to the right, moving northeast toward the outer limit of the fortress town. Presently, Tim reached a wide graveled esplanade known as Le Seignadou towering over the nearly vertical drop into the valley below. It offered a clear view of the Pyrénées in the south, the Black Mountain in the north, and Carcassonne on the horizon, at the end of the great Languedoc plain. Legend had it that it was on Le Seignadou that St. Dominic, who often preached there, had one night the vision of a huge ball of fire falling three times in a row from the sky on the fortified village of Prouilhe below. Was it an omen?

Tim backed up to the low wall on the edge of the esplanade, ready to fire the instant Kurtski rounded the corner from the narrow street leading from St. Dominic's house and came into plain view. But Kurtski emerged faster than Tim had expected, spotted him by the wall, and fired three times. With the bright sun in his eyes, Kurtski missed the first two times, but the third bullet grazed
Tim's shoulder as he was diving for the ground. Kurtski rushed toward Tim, his gun blazing, but he missed again. Now Kurtski was the easy target, and Tim, a CIA-trained sharpshooter, fired from the ground, hitting him squarely in the heart. Kurtski stopped for a split second, enormous surprise on his face, and fell forward, dead.

Crossing himself, Tim walked slowly to the spot where Kurtski lay, a thin trickle of crimson wetting the dry gravel; Tim could not look at the bloodied face on the street. Standing over the body, Tim shook with stifled sobs of vanishing tension, made the sign of the cross, and silently said the words of absolution. A flock of black birds soared over the esplanade, scared by the shots, cackling hysterically.

Now staring at the cadaver, Tim told himself bitterly, “My God, I became the killer of the man who once demanded that I should kill and be a killer . . . God, forgive me for I have sinned! . . .” His next thought was that Monsignor Sainte-Ange had made the right choice in recruiting him: a killer to track down killers!